


too long i roam in the night

by gealbhan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (well. a little to the left), 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blood Drinking, Experimental Style, Gothic, M/M, Pining, Tenderness, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-28 03:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20959961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: “In the meantime, you are more than welcome to come in for a cup of tea. Oh, do that, will you not? You might as well rest and dry off before your journey back to Enbarr.”The invitation hung between them. The beat of Ferdinand’s heart was suspended for a long moment before Hubert sighed, nearly inaudible, and took a step over the threshold with another slight bow. “As you wish, Duke Aegir.”





	too long i roam in the night

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you've just gotta channel mary shelley and that's how it is. i apologize in advance for how faux-deep this writing style is, i tried to blend 1800s romanticism with my own very 21st-century style and still make it readable and i'm not sure how well it worked!
> 
> title from kate bush's "wuthering heights" because i couldn't not. though i was also listening to a lot of florence while writing this. anyway, enjoy!

It was a dark and stormy night.

A cliché line, yes; but it was undoubtedly true. It was the wee hours of the eve, and the coal-black clouds that had rolled in days ago obscured any semblance of the stars that were usually visible in the unpolluted Adrestian countryside. For every crackle of the fire there was a roll of thunder. Rain tapped at the windows, pleading for entrance it would not receive. Gusts of wind tore at the walls, their howls lupine and beastly in the night.

Ferdinand von Aegir paid not a mite of his attention to the weather. Though he was lit by a mere oil lamp and warmed only by the fireplace and his clothing, he was content, focus devoted to the quill in his hand as it scratched against the sheet of parchment before him. Ink stained his fingers; a risen bump on his finger served as a testament to how long he’d been writing. His wrist was growing tired, but still he wrote like a man possessed.

Penning letters was not among his favorite hobbies—however, it was a basic necessity of life, particularly for one living so far from the city as Ferdinand had been. There were duties to carry out; friends and acquaintances to keep in contact with; reports to be made. Getting it all done at once and at an hour when he accomplished little else would secure time for more agreeable pastimes.

Under his wrist at present was a response to a personal letter from Lady Edelgard. They corresponded more often on a professional level, him being her prime minister and she his emperor, but since they had known one another from a young age, it was only natural to converse this way as well. Edelgard sent more letters than Ferdinand managed to—he suspected even now she had a bevy of drafts prepared to send at any moment. She enjoyed writing letters far more than he, and as of late she was far more diligent.

The competitive spirit in Ferdinand reared as his writing grew increasingly incoherent, the ardor with which he wielded his pen combined with the late hour causing his words to run together. He no longer cared to compete with Edelgard in more significant matters—she had more than proven herself, and he liked to think he had grown from those days—but when it came to frivolous tasks such as these, he intended on matching her pace if not to the point of surpassing her.

His hair, grown near to his waist with lack of upkeep (he intended to trim it soon, he swore), brushed the paper as he bent forward. He made a sound of frustration and brushed it aside. It truly was a troublesome process.

But nevertheless, Ferdinand continued on to produce a letter that was shorter than Edelgard’s last correspondence but, he felt, up to par content-wise. He had just finished applying the wax seal when there came a knock at the door.

It was a familiar knock: A simple yet assured _rap-rap-rap_ that gave away its owner better than any words or code could. That, and nowadays there was only one who came to visit him—or at the very least, only one who arrived this late and would knock before entering.

Ferdinand started to his feet. His heart leapt against his will, but all delicate, he swept his once again mussed hair off his shoulders and set the envelope down on his desk; and then, with a brisk pace, he set out for the door. It was not a long walk—his home here was, while sizable, quaint compared to his estate back in Enbarr (or rather, his father’s), but that was for the best in times such as these. There were no winding stairs to traverse; no pillars to collide with; nothing to keep Ferdinand from scurrying straight to the door and flinging it open.

Though he regretted it as soon as he had. He had listened to the whistling wind all night long, however subconscious that listening was; and yet it took him by surprise when it came flying into his house, chilling him to the bone. He steadied himself on the frame of the door and declared, nearly yelling to be heard over the clamor of the storm, “Good evening!”

He had to narrow his eyes to make out the face of the shadowed figure on his doorstep, but what a face it was. Few could deny Hubert von Vestra was an attractive man despite the macabre look he oft bore. He seemed wearier than he had when Ferdinand had last seen him a fortnight prior; his eyes were more shadowed than usual, the hard line of his mouth more solid. His pale skin was starker when swathed in darkness, though it was the only part of him not draped in black; and even that was questionable given the dampened mop of hair that hung over one eye and the hood he had up. Though Hubert’s expression was grim at best, Ferdinand could not help a smile sunny enough to make up for the lack of light.

Not so much as blinking, Hubert stepped into a brusque bow. “Good evening, Duke Aegir.”

His voice was low—he always was quiet. Had he not announced his presence with that knock, Ferdinand likely never would have realized he and his horse, a black mare as shadowy as he that was already racked up beneath a nearby tree, had arrived. The prospect was less unnerving than it ought to have been.

Hubert gave a passing glance to Ferdinand’s roof; seemingly determining it to be adequate shelter, he lowered his hood. “I have—”

“—come to collect my mail for Lady Edelgard,” guessed Ferdinand. “Yes, yes, I surmised that was the case. Luckily for you, I have just sealed my response to her latest correspondence.”

“Lovely.” Hubert’s eyes passed over Ferdinand’s hands—empty, Ferdinand knew, and Hubert’s eyes narrowed once he noticed. “Where is it, then?”

“I shall fetch it for you at once.” Ferdinand made to turn—mid-step, he stopped and once more looked over his shoulder at Hubert. He was, in a word, drenched; with his sopping cloak, hair, and indeed even skin, he bore a striking resemblance to the wet cats that so often made their way into Ferdinand’s dwelling. Frowning, Ferdinand said, “In the meantime, you are more than welcome to come in for a cup of tea. Oh, do that, will you not? You might as well rest and dry off before your journey back to Enbarr.”

The invitation hung between them. The beat of Ferdinand’s heart was suspended for a long moment before Hubert sighed, nearly inaudible, and took a step over the threshold with another slight bow. “As you wish, Duke Aegir.”

Ferdinand could scarcely hide his delight—but he tried with all of his might, only nodding and stepping back to allow Hubert into the entryway. “Are we not close enough now for you to call me by my first name?”

“It would be unwise to address my rival with such familiarity, would it not?” Hubert closed the door beside himself with a _slam_ that rid the house of some of the pervading chill; however, he still did not remove his cloak even with the coat rack right beside the door. In fact, he clutched it closer around himself. It was still rather cold, so it was understandable, if somewhat worrying.

“You are dripping all sorts of substances onto my freshly cleaned wood now,” said Ferdinand nonetheless. One could take the man out of the capital, but one could not remove the nobility from the man—or however that saying went. “I think we are past such formalities at this point.”

For a moment, Hubert almost seemed to smile; and then it was gone as he turned his back on Ferdinand. “That may well be. But you have forgotten one thing already, it seems.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

“I don’t drink tea.”

“Ah! I have forgotten nothing, my friend,” said Ferdinand with a smile. “I was simply using ‘tea’ as a colloquialism—it is what I will be drinking. If you would be so kind as to allow me to check my kitchen cabinets—”

He swept forward to lead Hubert into what would only be described by the most generous of patrons as a kitchen. It was cramped, unclean, and had little cabinet space (which made Ferdinand’s collection—while small—of the imported supplies for a drink he himself could not stand all the more significant, though he was unsure if Hubert would realize that). Hubert said nothing of it; while many of their meetings were brief exchanges of mail, he had beheld the kitchen before and had made his comments then.

Since Ferdinand was so often alone when it came time to eat or drink, he made little use of the dining table. It was more so a meeting place for company—most often Hubert, but on occasion Lady Edelgard or Dorothea or another of their acquaintances (though the former two were the most frequent visitors). Ferdinand ushered Hubert over to it while he set out to prepare their drinks.

However, after he’d turned his back on Hubert once more, he noticed the lack of the distinctive scraping sound of the chair across the floor. Hubert was quiet, but far from that silent. Ferdinand turned to find Hubert standing close enough behind him that his heart leapt, and it took a moment for it to cease pounding so fervently; once recovered, Ferdinand scowled.

“You are my guest,” he said with a petulant shove to Hubert’s shoulder that did nothing but make Hubert’s mouth twitch into a half-formed facsimile of a smile. “Please, sit.”

Hubert did not let up, folding his arms and meeting Ferdinand’s eyes in full. “If you are going to be preparing my coffee—”

“Which I will, naturally.”

“—then it is only right that I prepare the tea, correct?”

“Oh! Well—” Much as he tried, Ferdinand could not find any fault in that—it was a rather noble thing to do. “If you so wish, then I see no reason why not.”

“I do so wish,” said Hubert; and then he smiled, this time genuine and wide; and Ferdinand had to lower his head lest the heat in his cheeks become too conspicuous.

They worked in tandem, Ferdinand preparing Hubert’s coffee and Hubert Ferdinand’s tea, and relative silence. It seemed an unspoken agreement between them was that the conversation would be reserved for when their drinks were ready. While Ferdinand himself was not fond of coffee, he knew how to prepare it well enough to hopefully appease Hubert’s standards; he knew Hubert had experience from preparing Edelgard’s tea if nothing else, so he kept his confident eyes on his own work.

They were seated across from one another at the table, nursing their respective cups. Ferdinand took a deep inhale—already, the aroma was divine, bringing a smile to his lips as they brushed over the rim of his cup. He and Hubert exchanged nods before toasting and taking their first sips.

“I will have to coax you into preparing my tea more often,” said Ferdinand as soon as he had swallowed.

“And you my coffee,” said Hubert, pleasant surprise filling his tone and face alike.

With that unspoken ritual, Ferdinand launched into questions, as he often did: about what Hubert had done since they’d last seen each other; about Lady Edelgard; about the state of things in Enbarr and the world as a whole; about the rest of their mutual acquaintances; about any gossip Hubert had come upon in his spy circles (which he, as always, insisted were not called that). Hubert answered as best he could but responded with few questions of his own.

This arrangement worked just fine. While Ferdinand had much to say, not much in the way of news occurred to or around him now. On the other hand, as little as Hubert had to discuss, toting matters _of the utmost secrecy_ and the like, he seemed to appreciate talking about what he was willing to speak of; and Ferdinand was delighted to hear about anything and everything he had to say.

This was what he missed about Enbarr, truly. Since he had stolen away to the countryside last spring, Ferdinand had not gotten to have such easy, carefree interactions as this one—however, the cost by which those interactions came, in his opinion, was a worthy sacrifice. It was the company that made these moments truly satisfactory; and this specific company was difficult to come by even in Enbarr, where he was more occupied with work and Lady Edelgard. Ferdinand would have given it all up again to enjoy tea—and of course coffee—with Hubert even a single time more.

But it came to his notice that Hubert did not seem to share the sentiment. By the time he had drained his coffee, he did not look as relaxed as Ferdinand had hoped he would. Quite the opposite, he looked even tenser; his face was drained of what little color it already possessed, and he seemed—how to word it—twitchy. He kept toying with his collar; the tablecloth; the rim, and on occasion handle, of his cup as well as the plate it was perched on; in short, anything he could get his hands on. He also spoke less than usual, though that was less quantifiable and may have been pure imagination.

Taken on its own, Ferdinand may have dismissed the behavior. Altogether, it was rather strange and deeply troubling.

Yet Hubert did not voice his discomfort even in a backhanded manner until Ferdinand had finished drinking his tea as well. Ferdinand doubted many people would describe Hubert as a gentleman; in this way, however, he most certainly was. The instant Ferdinand set his cup down with a satisfied hum, Hubert cleared his throat.

“I apologize for saying this so abruptly,” said he, as though they had not spent a significant amount of time together (though Ferdinand knew not how long it was exactly), “but I’m afraid it is getting rather late, and Lady Edelgard insisted I be back by dawn.”

“Oh, of course!” exclaimed Ferdinand. “Apologies. I did not mean to keep you from your responsibilities; I simply hoped to offer a moment of respite from… oh, your responsibilities, I suppose.”

“And it was much appreciated,” Hubert assured him. “However, I feel I have overstayed my welcome.”

“I understand. Then I shall simply clean this up—” and here Ferdinand made a sweeping gesture to their cups and plates “—and fetch Edelgard’s letter. If you wish, you may wait outside—though you can stay here if you desire that,” he added with haste.

“Ah—while the offer is also appreciated, Duke Aegir, I think it would be best if I were to ready my horse while there is still—hmm—midnight oil to burn, as it were.”

“Of course,” said Ferdinand again, flustered. “Then you are excused, _as it were_.”

Hubert scoffed at his impression—complete with a bow he thought mimicked the movement Hubert was oh-so-fond of quite well—and made to stand.

But, as soon as he’d gotten up, there came a resounding commotion, for Hubert had stumbled in a bout of clumsiness Ferdinand had never witnessed from him and nearly fallen face-first. Letting loose a string of swears under his breath, he clutched the table for support. His face was paler now than ever before; beads of sweat were accumulating around his forehead.

“Goddess!” cried Ferdinand, jolting to his feet as well. “Are you all right? Do you require any assistance?”

“No,” snapped Hubert. His head rose, eyes flashing; his hair had fallen aside (Ferdinand’s fingers ached with the urge to tuck it all the way behind his ears), so it truly was _eyes_. Both bored into Ferdinand unbridled by bangs. “I will be—just fine. Give me a moment to regain my bearings, please, Duke Aegir.”

Were it not for the pained discomfort obvious in his stance as well as his voice, Ferdinand may have obliged. As it was, concern washed over him, and he took a cautious step forward.

“Hubert—”

“Do me one courtesy and do not speak, I _fucking_ beg of you.”

Undeterred by the dagger-like shards in Hubert’s words and eyes alike, Ferdinand laid a comforting hand on his bent shoulder. A sharp intake of breath sounded. For a moment, he was unsure whether it was himself or Hubert, but Hubert’s parted mouth and posthumous look of regret served as an answer.

Ferdinand tipped his head to the side. “Please,” said he in nothing short of a plea, “my dear Hubert, are we not friends? Allies under Her Majesty, if nothing else? I am not suggesting you owe me anything—nothing of the sort, I promise you!—but I do care about you, and your behavior worries and frightens me. If you need anything…” He trailed off. “Hubert? Are you all right?”

For Hubert had lowered his head once more and uttered something under his breath, perhaps a prayer—dubious, as Ferdinand had never known Hubert to be a pious man—or a curse—far more reasonable. He looked up only to fix Ferdinand with the most intense gaze he had ever been under, pinning him like a taxidermied butterfly. Lightning flashed outside; it cast a near-blinding light on Hubert’s face for an instant.

“What I am about to confide with you,” said Hubert, grave tone leaving no arguments, “cannot leave this building. Please understand that I am telling you this with the utmost amount of secrecy and trust, and you _will_ regret it if ever you are to betray that trust.”

Ferdinand took a step back, hand falling from Hubert’s shoulder to dangle, limp and lifeless, at his side. Confused thoughts blurred through his mind: Had Hubert taken ill? Was he injured? Was it something to do with Lady Edelgard? Perhaps Linhardt’s questionable experiments?

His hands shook at the thought of something awful having befallen Hubert (and, shamefully, further more at the implication that Hubert trusted him). Still, it would have felt wrong to say anything except, “I understand.”

However stilted Ferdinand’s agreement was, it seemed to quell Hubert’s concerns—he gave a stiff nod. “Thank you. Do you—hmm.” Hubert thought for a moment that to Ferdinand seemed like an eon, and when he spoke again, each word was careful and pointed. “How much do you know about vampires?”

“Vampires?” repeated Ferdinand; he was uncertain what such creatures had to do with this discussion. “Not much, I am afraid. I know of their existence, of course, and I know that they are—oh my,” he said all of a sudden, wide eyes taking Hubert in with a much altered perspective. “Are you saying that you—?”

Hubert’s jaw tensed. If he had seemed to be in discomfort earlier, that was nothing compared to the expression he wore now. Yet there was not an ounce of hesitation when he nodded once more.

Now that Ferdinand had been led along this train of thought, it seemed foolish that he had not realized earlier. Were he a more common man, perhaps; but he was Ferdinand von Aegir, and—he liked to think—a close companion of Hubert besides. How had such a significant detail about the man for whom he cared so very much escaped his notice?

Recent interactions with and facts about Hubert ran unbidden but unimpeded through his mind. There was that ghastly pallor of his; while Ferdinand had never had the misfortune to witness a corpse firsthand, he suspected that the tone of Hubert’s skin was similar to one’s. Then the fact that Ferdinand had not ever seen Hubert during the day, or at least not for some time. He always visited at night, yet in the past Ferdinand had assumed that was due to the distance or Hubert’s preference for working in the shadows. How Hubert always knocked and always stayed just on the cusp of the premises until Ferdinand invited him inside in no uncertain terms. His distaste for most foods and beverages, including tea—in retrospect, thought Ferdinand, that should have been the most prominent hint: Who would disavow tea as Hubert did save for someone who could not physically stomach it?

Though Ferdinand had rationalized the revelation, plenty of questions remained on his tongue: “Do you drink blood? Whose blood do you drink? Are you able to withstand the light of the sun? Have you always been—?” He cut himself off with a peal of nervous laughter. “Oh, forgive me. These are invasive questions, are they not?”

“Perhaps if someone else were to ask them.” Hubert winced. “But… as I have unfortunately admitted to, I do trust you. So ask away, if you must.”

At any other time, Ferdinand—thrilled to be so up close and personal with a real-life vampire (though he would not have minded being _closer—_oh, what an awful thought to have in such a time!)—would have been more than happy to. However, now he looked over Hubert once more. At his face, contorted in an expression that looked not just pained but agonized. At the vice grip of his gloved hand on Ferdinand’s tablecloth.

Ferdinand decided his curiosity could be sated at a later time. “I believe I should tend to you first,” said he, tone far gentler than he’d intended; it gave away more than he was prepared to yet, but he clung to the brittle hope that Hubert would not notice in his current state. “Now that you have confided in me so, what do you require help with?”

At that, Hubert bit out a harsh laugh, baring—indeed—sharp fangs. “Good Goddess, you really are—I need _blood_,” he said, spittle flying from around his mouth. “And I doubt you have any of that stored away in your cupboard, so I should be taking my leave now.”

He tried to stand once more, but this time, Ferdinand was there to stop him. Their eyes met—Hubert’s were almost glowing. Frustration etched on his face, Hubert was only able to stand for another moment before his legs gave out; he held himself up on the table once more. Ferdinand clutched his chest—oh, how he ached to see him in such a state.

“What,” hissed Hubert, “are you doing? I need to—”

“I may not have any blood in my cabinets, true,” said Ferdinand, “but luckily for you, I have plenty of it right here.” His voice lowered, its cadence almost intimate but still audible above the storm raging outside. “Use my blood, if you must.”

Hubert stared, agape mouth putting those fangs on display again. They were rather overt; Ferdinand was unsure if he was all the more oblivious for never having noticed them or whether they were retractable or something to that effect.

“You are insane,” decided Hubert, tone wary and with the slightest tremble in it—but, Ferdinand thought, there was something akin to wonder in it as well. “Or you’re going to take this opportunity to drive a stake through my heart, as though that is a weakness for only us—” his lip curled back “—creatures of the night and not any living being. Neither is a favorable option.”

“Do you honestly believe I am capable of such a cruel deed?” Such an act had not even crossed Ferdinand’s mind, and he discarded the notion as soon as it had been presented with an aghast shake of the head. “You did confess that you trusted me, need I remind you.”

“And I regret it immensely, believe me.” (Ferdinand could in fact believe him.)

Hubert’s eyes fell shut. He remained standing with his hand planted on the table still; he drooped with such exhaustion in that moment that otherwise Ferdinand would have assumed he’d fallen asleep. Though perhaps vampires were capable of such feats? He would truly have to inquire after Hubert’s abilities afterward—though he would only be able to do so if Hubert were _alive_ to inquire after.

“Hubert,” he said, softer than he oft spoke, let alone to Hubert. An irate hum told him that Hubert was still amongst the living (in the allegorical sense). “There is no one else around for miles, unless you would like to drink the blood of your horse. With or without her, you will not be able to make it to any semblance of civilization in time, not in this weather. I am, I regret to say, the only option here. And I am perfectly healthy,” he assured, resting a hand on his chest. “I imagine my blood is far better—far nobler, in fact—than any you have had in the past. So please, lay this foolishness to rest and drink my blood.”

“You—” A noise came from somewhere in Hubert’s throat, a growl that Ferdinand was certain was meant to intimidate him but only solidified his resolve. “You do not seem to understand the gravity of this situation, Ferdinand.” The name came out as a taunt, a snarl, a point made; much like the strange growl, all it did was make Ferdinand more determined.

“What I understand is that you are, in effect, dying. And that I would like very much to help you.” A possibility occurred to Ferdinand. “How does the, ah—what I mean to say is,” said he, fumbling for the correct phrasing, “how does it spread? By biting me, will I—”

“No,” said Hubert hastily, paling further at the words left unspoken. “Turning a person requires intent; for most, if not all, of their blood to be drained; and other requirements that I would rather not discuss now. I would—” He grimaced and took a hesitant breath. “I would never do such a thing to you, not without your express permission and understanding.”

“Well, that _is_ a relief,” admitted Ferdinand. “Nothing against your lifestyle, of course, but—” He stopped. “Then if that is the case, what is all of this about? There is no other problem that could come about from you drinking my blood, is there?”

Hubert’s tongue, dry and ashen with dehydration, snaked out to wet his lips, and he cast his near-ashamed gaze downward. “No. Not… exactly. Not unless I were to drink too much, which I don’t trust myself not to do.”

“But _I_ trust you,” said Ferdinand, and it felt like a confession in its own right. “Is that enough?”

Hubert did not answer. He just looked at Ferdinand, eyes caged—those of something more like a beast than a man, but undoubtedly _Hubert_ beneath the glassiness. The crackling silence between them gave way to the sounds of the storm around them. Wind roared and rain poured and thunder growled, seeming to shake the ground beneath Ferdinand’s feet. Ferdinand emerged victorious in the unspoken staring contest between them when Hubert’s eyes closed, the shadows underneath illuminated by another intermittent flash of lightning.

Ferdinand rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, sending a shiver up his arm, and shoved his wrist toward Hubert’s bent head. “Please.”

Hubert’s eyes stayed shut, but his mouth twisted; and he began to ask, “Do you honestly—”

“_Hubert.”_

It may well have been a trick of the light, but it seemed to Ferdinand that at last something like a healthy flush rose on Hubert’s cheeks at that instant. He flushed with rage, perhaps, but that was preferable to the pallor of death itself.

With a hand that trembled like a branch shaken by the tumultuous wind, Hubert reached up and curled his fingers around Ferdinand’s extended wrist. His grip was not harsh, nothing like the iron shackle Ferdinand expected except in temperature—for Hubert’s glove was cool and still damp, to say nothing of what the skin beneath must have felt like, but he held Ferdinand’s wrist with something like reverence.

A labored exhale blew lukewarm breath across Ferdinand’s skin. It was followed by the ghost of Hubert’s voice, too quiet to discern any words. Possibly it was another prayer or curse, or the opposite of what his earlier murmur had been; or it may have even been an apology, a thought that froze Ferdinand in place. Teeth grazed against skin, perhaps seeking out the thinnest membrane to tear into. Hubert’s eyes opened, catching Ferdinand’s for another instant—

And then he bit down.

Ferdinand was not sure what he’d expected. Maybe for it to be either unbearably painful or quite the opposite, blissful even; rather, the feeling was somewhere in between. It stung, yes, but far less than any injuries he’d sustained in duels or through accidents. As the initial pain of the bite ebbed, he relaxed into the sensation. Already lightheadedness was beginning to envelop him, but he stood firm and refused to faint.

Hubert’s grip on his wrist tightened the slightest amount. Ferdinand relented, pressing his arm further forward. He did not look at the place where blood was draining from him—the lowest he allowed himself to glance was the top of Hubert’s head—and he could not _feel_ it leaving him per se, so the only metric he had to go by was the gentle sound of Hubert drinking it in. Hubert drank as though Ferdinand were a font of holy water, somehow elegant even desperately drinking blood.

It may well have been hours or longer they stood there, locked in that symbiotic embrace—Ferdinand wouldn’t have known, dizziness only increasing the longer Hubert drank. Yet after however long it was, Hubert’s tongue flicked across the incision one last time before he pushed Ferdinand back. Blood dribbled down his jaw, crimson stark against his skin.

“No—no more,” he said with a wet gasp, hoarse and weak. He was still trembling, but he shook his head when Ferdinand, uncomprehending, extended his wrist once more. “I’ve taken too much. This will be enough for now—I don’t wish to harm you any further.”

Ferdinand eyed the way Hubert was still holding the table for support, the weariness written all over his face. Blood was dripping from Ferdinand’s own wrist; he was quick to tear off part of his sleeve to use as a makeshift tourniquet, glad for once that the material was so cheap. He looked back to Hubert before he could apply it. “You are certain you shall be all right?”

Hubert’s only response was a weak nod; and Ferdinand—though reluctant and ready to proffer another wrist if necessary—relented. He wrapped the fabric around his wrist, noticing that the bleeding had already lessened.

His hand shifted up to cup the side of Hubert’s face, thumb stroking an absent pattern into Hubert’s cold cheekbone. Ferdinand’s already-erratic pulse jumped at the thrill of touching Hubert like this. Hubert’s skin was clammy and undeniably inhuman, but warmth was spreading as—Ferdinand presumed—the blood coursed through his system; even so, the unpleasant texture meant nothing to Ferdinand at a time like this.

“My dear,” said Ferdinand, tenderness as plain as in his hand, “how long has it been since you had something to drink?”

“You were the one who made me coffee.” Hubert’s eyes were shut, but his mouth gave an almost imperceptible twitch as he spoke. “You should know.”

Ferdinand let out a huff of breath, an indignant flush snaking up his neck; he fended off the urge to pinch Hubert’s cheek in petty retaliation. “You are well aware of what I meant. When was the last time you had blood?” he reiterated for emphasis.

“I… truly do not remember,” said Hubert. He wheezed out a laugh, albeit one without any real mirth. “I’ve been so busy these past few weeks—usually, I come across enough in my, ah, line of work to keep myself sustained, but I suppose I haven’t been doing my job well enough lately.”

“Nonsense,” insisted Ferdinand. “You came tonight for Her Majesty’s mail, did you not? If either of us is neglecting our duties, it is most certainly I, so far from Enbarr as I am.”

“And yet you were the one fully prepared. If you weren’t lying about the letter to tempt me to a cup of coffee, that is.”

Ferdinand gasped—the sudden sound made Hubert’s eyes open back up, blown wide with concern that vanished when it became clear it was only Ferdinand’s typical dramatics. “How dare you, Sir Vestra,” said Ferdinand, though the laugh threatening to bubble up undercut his tone severely. “I would never fabricate such a thing. …I will admit that I left it behind on purpose, however.”

“How scandalous,” said Hubert with another thin smile. Then his gaze sobered; he shot a wary glance to the side, looking over the red-speckled cloth around Ferdinand’s wrist with a frown. With what appeared to be a mighty amount of strain, he brought himself up to an upright position—more stable than he had been hitherto, but he still had to lean slightly on the table. “Are you still bleeding? This may have been a mistake after all.”

“I believe it is beginning to stop,” said Ferdinand, but Hubert would have none of it—he had already taken Ferdinand’s wrist in his hand again and uttered a healing spell.

It _did_ make Ferdinand feel better. The dizziness faded, the world no longer spinning around him; the pain (distant as it already was) lessened as well. Hubert lowered his hand, abashed after the fact.

“That may hurt more come morning,” said he, examining Ferdinand’s wrist as best he could with the fabric over the wound. “There may also be some bruising, but that should go down after several days. My apologies for how vague this is—I’ve never gotten to speak with someone I’ve drunk from before,” he added. “And I thank you for all that you have done—” he stepped into a humble bow “—but I feel more than ever that I have overstayed my welcome—”

“Hubert, truthfully now,” interrupted Ferdinand, a thought occurring to him, and Hubert stopped with a questioning look. “Did Lady Edelgard really want you back by dawn?”

Hubert’s mouth parted—and just as quickly, it shut, bloodstained lips thinning. How curious, how he refused to lie again despite his aptitude for it.

Ferdinand took his hand in his own, winding their fingers together like interlaced pieces of string. Were they not already as close as they were, Ferdinand may not have seen the flush rising in Hubert’s face, nor the sweat beginning to trail along his face; but with their physical proximity, he couldn’t help but notice.

“If that is the case,” he said, offering a small smile, “then stay.”

“Ferdinand—” started Hubert, and then he fell silent, leaning back.

Ferdinand sighed but didn’t let go of Hubert’s hand. “If you truly have no desire to,” said he, voice the quietest it had been all night, “then you are free to leave; you are not obligated to stay. But—well, I would like you to. You may even take my room, if you so wish, or the guest bedroom I have prepared—”

“You are persuasive tonight, aren’t you.” It was not a question, but it lacked the confidence many of Hubert’s words held, and Ferdinand could not determine the true underlying feeling.

“With good reason, I should think,” he said hotly; “for you have been incognizant of your own health, so it seems it falls to me to look after you.” As though demonstrating, his spare hand rose, and he ran the dorsal side across Hubert’s chin, wiping his own blood away. Hubert openly stared. Ferdinand let his hand, now covered in blood, drift back to his side—there, surreptitious (though that was hardly to say that Hubert would not notice), he wiped it off on his pants.

If Hubert did in fact notice, he said nothing of it. Instead, he averted his gaze. “I must say, I have never felt so—” he paused for a moment, eyebrows pressing together as he considered “—patronized.”

“You think I am _patronizing_ you?” said Ferdinand, the flush clinging to his cheeks now out of indignation. Perhaps his reaction was too strong, but it had been quite the night. “Hubert, it is just fine if you do not return the feelings I feel I have made abundantly clear, but to mock me in such a way—”

“I’m… afraid I don’t follow. What feelings?”

Was this another ruse, or was he truly unaware after all that had happened? “Must I put into words how I feel for you? How ardently I admire and care for you? By the Goddess, Hubert, I allowed you to drink my blood; I insisted you do so, for that matter.” A glaze still veiled Hubert’s eyes, and so with no further ado, Ferdinand took Hubert’s other limp hand in his, clasping Hubert’s gloved hands between his bare palms. “Fine, then; it seems you have forced my hand.” With a valiant clear of the throat, he declared, in no uncertain terms: “Of late, I have found myself more often than not both troubled and comforted by thoughts of you. I am well aware that we have not always been on the best of terms, but I have grown unbearably fond of you, my dear Hubert. I… I love you,” he said, a weight lifting off his chest at the feverish confession, “and while you are of course not obligated to return the sentiment, I must say that that is my most profound hope.”

His impassioned proclamation hung between them as silence, save for the seemingly so distant rain and thunder and wind, swept over them. Ferdinand would not let anything close to embarrassment seep in now; on the contrary, he held strong to Hubert’s hands as he caught his breath. Hubert appeared to have sunken into a trance—his face was stricken, his hands stiff and limp.

The quiet was torturing, and before long it drove Ferdinand mad enough to say, just short of a demand, “Well? Please, respond. If you are going to refuse me, speak plainly—you have never seemed to have any problem doing so in the past.”

“Ferdinand von Aegir, you are,” said Hubert, words halting and again less assured than was the norm, “by far the most tactless and irritating man I have had the misfortune of knowing.”

Oh—and there it was. Ferdinand lowered his head so that his unkempt locks of hair would cover the disappointed look on his face. He had expected this, but his hands still trembled faintly as he dropped them from around Hubert’s, eyes welling up at the very corners.

“Very well,” he said with another throat clear. “You are free to go, then, after I get that letter. I apologize for coming on too strongly, and I wish you all the best, of course.”

Yet before he could so much as turn, Hubert had enclosed Ferdinand’s hands in his own, a more powerful mirror of Ferdinand’s own gesture. Ferdinand stared down, uncomprehending, thoughts viscous and slow; though whether from blood loss or a rush of it to the head he knew not.

“I wasn’t finished.” Despite the droll tone, Hubert’s face was serious but vulnerable down to a faint blush, and so Ferdinand waited with bated breath. “You are infuriating, and your attempts to act as Lady Edelgard’s rival as though the two of you were equals never ceased to frustrate me. But,” he said, and now if Ferdinand strained his ears he could make out the reciprocal tenderness in his voice, something that sent a chill that had nothing to do with the weather up his spine, “much as I try, I… have found that I have grown fond of you as well. You are a most interesting person. I greatly respect the optimism—however unfounded—and boldness with which you gallivant through life.”

“Are you—” Ferdinand’s head rung. “Are you complimenting me? This is most unusual.”

Hubert huffed out a laugh, a dry yet thrilling sound. “I would say that tonight as a whole has been _most unusual_,” he said with a pointed look to the cloth around Ferdinand’s wrist, dotted with his blood, “so it’s only fitting.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose that is true.” Still dazed, Ferdinand shook his head. “Apologies. I—I believe you were still speaking.”

“I was,” affirmed Hubert. “Did you know, Ferdinand—” and oh, much as he’d complained, Ferdinand wished now they could go back to the days of the ceaseless use of _Duke Aegir_, for at least that did not make him feel so faint “—that only three others know of my condition?” Leaving no question as to the euphemism, he bore his fangs in a swift flash of red-stained white. “Myself; Lady Edelgard, naturally; and Linhardt—due to his own nosiness rather than any intent on my part,” he clarified.

“I see.” It made sense—while Hubert liked knowing everyone else’s business, he kept his own close to the chest, and Ferdinand could not see things going over well if the Adrestian people knew the Minister of the Imperial Household was a blood-sucking creature of the night. However—“How is this relevant, if you do not mind me asking?”

“Because if you had known how tightly-kept this secret is,” said Hubert, “then you would have understood how preposterous a suggestion it was that I wouldn’t share your feelings in full.”

“Oh,” said Ferdinand, little more than a whisper. And then his eyes widened; and he looked between Hubert’s rose-tinted cheeks and their clasped hands, Hubert’s so firm around his own. “Oh! Really?!” he asked—more exclaimed—even as a grin crept its way across his face.

Hubert gave a laborious sigh—partly for show, Ferdinand was certain. “Indeed,” he said as though the admission was a great task to bear. “While I feel that an outright confession of love may be too hasty, I—how was it you put it?—most ardently care for and admire you.”

“To be honest, I have already forgotten most of what I said.” Ferdinand swayed slightly on his feet. “Oh dear. I—I am quite delighted, you see, and I fear I might faint—”

Alarm crossed Hubert’s features. “Is that so?” he asked while his face hardened, mouth dipping into a scowl. “You may have lost more blood than I thought; are you still in any pain?”

The terse question was an uncomfortable grounding to the feeling Ferdinand had possessed of walking on air, but he did appreciate it, as did he the care in Hubert’s expression; he felt like a fool for not having noticed it hitherto, too caught up in his own feelings. He frowned and mulled it over.

“I do not believe so,” he said as solemnly as he could. “I believe it is simply a side effect of my happiness, as it were. Give me a minute, if you will be so kind.” And he took the gift to take it all in, breaths deep yet rushed with giddiness; his heartbeat was so fervent that he felt Hubert could hear it as well. His ears were still ringing and his entire body threatening to buckle, but he smiled. “All right, I believe I am recovered now.”

With that, he found he could do nothing else except laugh. It was a relieved, joyous burst of sound; a song to join the chorus of the storm, which still continued on as strong as ever despite the abundance of sunshine within Ferdinand’s abode. Though hesitant, Hubert’s own laughter soon jointed his, intermittent chuckles underlain with a similar relief to the kind Ferdinand felt. They stood together in the kitchen that wasn’t quite a kitchen, cups and plates abandoned as they simply basked in one another’s presence.

“Well, you simply must stay now,” said Ferdinand once he had recovered. “You must be exhausted, my love—” for he could say things like this now, and though it warmed his face it also made him smile “—and surely Lady Edelgard will understand. I shall even add a postscript telling her of your struggles.”

“Hadn’t you already sealed the letter, though?”

“Ah… well, I am certain she will not mind two letters.”

And to another chuckle from Hubert, Ferdinand scurried off, hands still intertwined with Hubert so as to guide him along.

And though it was dark and stormy outside, these walls were filled with enough light, love, and warmth to combat even the foreboding air of the night itself.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! if you have time to spare, comments & kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
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